


try again (and maybe we'll do the right thing)

by strawberriez8800



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, M/M, Series 4 Episode 6, Suicide Attempt (to get out of the time-loop), Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: Either his brain was slowly melting within his skull, or Alfie was reliving his last day over and over. Neither was preferable.In which Alfie finds himself stuck in a time-loop at Margate, with Tommy. —Series 4, Episode 6 canon-divergence.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 14
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part One of Two. 
> 
> Got this idea in the middle of writing my other multi-chapter fic. This will be a short one! To get it out of my system. Hope you like it :)

This should be over _—_ was Alfie's first thought when he awoke in his own bed.

Margate. Tommy. Two gunshots, then—peace. About fucking time—was what Alfie would've said if he'd woken up in Hell, and yet there was none of that.

It'd felt achingly palpable, this dream, even more so than the rest of them. The look in Tommy's eyes. The wavering of the gun in his hand that had held Alfie's very fate. So close, yet so fucking far.

The ever strange thing about this dream was it'd been his vision of how it would go—how _he_ would go, as though it'd all been some twisted foretelling of the fucking future.

Enough of that. The last thing Alfie needed was more baggage. The end was close; it'd do him well to stop fucking wondering about it all.

Alfie stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, listening to the gentle waves upon the shore not too far from his window. There was never anything so foreign that felt so comforting at once, though not quite like home; he'd die before Margate would ever come to feel like such a thing, he knew that much, but it didn't stop him from wanting it to _be_ home, all the same.

He rose for the morning after some time—ten minutes, or perhaps an hour. He found Cyril curled up on the balcony with the morning sun bearing down on his coat. Marjorie—the housekeeper—had just finished setting the table for breakfast. _Dardanella_ was playing on the gramophone, filling the sitting room and kitchen with its liveliness that was at odds with Alfie's mood; Marge did have a penchant for jazz. As for Alfie, he was coming around to it; like with all things American, you made do.

Marjorie had prepared cranberry buttermilk pancakes with chamomile tea, and perhaps in usual circumstances he wouldn't pay the meal a second thought, yet it was nothing if not an awfully specific thing to prepare twice in row. Or had she?

Time crawled for the rest of the morning. Rain fell and ceased almost as quickly as it'd come—at eleven precisely, and Alfie only knew because he'd been reading at the time and the clock chimed almost in line with the commencement of rainfall. Into the afternoon the day went, during all of which Alfie didn't do anything of particular significance—watching ships, walking Cyril, making his peace with the world in the solitude of his mind.

Soon, he would meet Tommy at the pier, and this time it better be the fucking last of it.

* * *

It wasn't the last of it.

The ceiling of his bedroom greeted Alfie to another morning—one too fucking many, frankly—and there was nothing quite like thinking—no, _knowing_ you had died only to see you hadn't.

“What the fuck?” Alfie asked no one in particular. The ceiling, perhaps.

He scrambled out of bed, almost falling out of it in his haste, and stumbled into the sitting room. _Dardanella_ was wafting through the vicinity yet again; Cyril was, again, curled up on the balcony; breakfast was, of course, fucking cranberry buttermilk pancakes with chamomile tea.

“What the fuck,” Alfie repeated to himself, and this time it wasn't so much a question than a simple expression of the pure fucking impossible.

Perhaps what was possible was the notion he'd been stuck in some dream within a dream that had somehow mimicked each other to an uncanny accuracy—no, that was fucking ridiculous. So was waking up in the his own bed after quite literally dying at a place that was anywhere but his bed.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Marjorie asked as she set the table.

_No, nothing is fucking right because you've made this same fucking thing three times in a row. What the fuck did I hire you for?_

Quite a mouthful, that, and so was explaining his predicament—if there _was_ an actual predicament rather than a case of his own brain slowly melting within his skull; thus, he simply grumbled out an excuse and ate his breakfast.

Afterwards, Alfie did nothing except wait. And wait he did, sitting on his balcony, eyes cast up at the sky. No doubt Marjorie was thinking he was finally off his rocker, what with him observing the clouds roll in with the sort of fascination no one ought to have when watching the fucking weather.

When the clock struck eleven, the rain poured, just as scheduled. It stopped two minutes later, and the sun shone again, just as scheduled.

Four hours into what seemed like the third repeated day—or dream, which was a fact yet to be verified—Alfie concluded there could be one of three explanations: one—he had achieved immortality along with memory loss that spanned from the moment he'd been shot by Tommy at the pier until he awoke in his own bed; two—he was reliving his last day over and over for whatever fucking reason, and frankly there would be no reason at all this would ever make a modicum of _sense_ ; or three—he, Alfie fucking Solomons, had gone insane. The former two choices were equally implausible, and the third much less so. Still, whatever the truth was, it didn't change the fact he had accepted death and was very, very ready to just die and get it over with.

In the end, there was fuck all he could do about Option One—being quite literally _unable_ to die. As for Two, if Alfie was the only change in this world of horrible constants as he relived his final hours, then the only thing left to do was...

 _Why_ the fuck was he even wasting his energy on this?

Alfie could end it all right here, he could. The gun was already in his coat, for fuck's sake. He didn't need Tommy. Why had Alfie ever bothered to ask to die at his hands in the first place? All three times he'd counted on dying at the hands of Tommy Shelby—yet another fucking constant.

Yes, this was the change that had to be. If Alfie were the one to put an end to it instead of Tommy, surely that would be enough to put a stop to this madness.

But dying in his room with his dog on the other side of this wall was rather grotesque a thing, wasn't it? And Marge, too—would she even survive the sight?

Fuck it. After this, none of the insanity would be his problem anymore.

So, Alfie held the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.

* * *

“Fuck!”

Alfie's own voice slapped him in the face as harshly as it'd sounded coming out of his throat, and the only thing he knew was Hell would be far more preferable to whatever the fuck this was.

At least his efforts thus far had proven one thing: killing himself was not a solution. He could, of course, try other methods of ending his life, but it was rather unlikely that brute-forcing his way through this conundrum by doing the equivalent of banging his head against the wall would be the way to go.

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

...if he was one variable in this repeated nightmare, then it would stand to reason to find _another_ variable and investigate from there, wouldn't it? And since his death seemed to be the resetting factor, perhaps it'd be worth seeing through the entire day to find out what would happen, wouldn't it?

Fuck knows.

In any case, the only way forward was through; thus, he might as well try to discover a thing or two whilst he was at it.

So, Alfie got to work. First, to test if he was, indeed, the only one going through this madness, at least within the space of his own house...

“Marge,” he began carefully, eyeing the pancakes on the breakfast table. The same goddamned pancakes he was about to have for the fourth time. “I'm going to ask you a question, right, and you're going to answer very carefully.”

“What is it, Mr Solomons?”

“When was the last time you made these, hmm?”

It was a long shot, he knew, for Marge had seemed part of the never-changing factors in this series of mind fuckery. Still.

“I haven't, sir,” she said after a pause, “it was from a new recipe I'd been wanting to try.”

“So you didn't make them yesterday, or the day before, or the one before that? Is that it?” Even he, himself, felt fucking stupid asking this question.

She looked at Alfie like he was crazy, and perhaps he was. It'd be the easiest explanation, in any case. “No, I didn't...”

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, and it wasn't until Marge was all but gaping at him with concern that he realised he'd been glaring at the pancakes like they'd wronged him in a past life.

“Sir, is there anything I could—”

“No, just...fuck off. Thank you.”

Alfie spent the rest of the day searching for a semblance of something—anything—that was different. Yet, like clockwork, everything fell into place when they should, where they should. By the time Alfie was at the pier, ready to meet Tommy, he was almost convinced he would see through the entire day having learned fuck all about this bloody mystery...

Then it happened.

Today, at the pier, Tommy was late.

This was—this was good. This cursed day _was_ capable of change. Certainly, it was a start to deciphering what the ever loving fuck was happening.

“You've never been late here, Tommy. Why now?” was the first thing Alfie said when Tommy arrived. “What's so fucking special about _this_ particular day, mate?”

Tommy regarded him from a wary distance. “What?”

“I said, why today?” Alfie asked slowly, watching Tommy's confusion spread from the lift of his eyebrows to the slight twist of his mouth. “What's different? Tell me what's fucking different.”

Alfie knew, of course, that he wouldn't make any sense to anyone who wasn't trapped in this joke that surely was an act of some higher-being with a sense of humour more fucked up than his own. But Tommy—Tommy was _late_ and that meant something, _had_ to mean something because Alfie didn't know what the fuck else he could do if it didn't.

The fact that Tommy wasn't already staring at Alfie like he was insane was good a sign as any—or Tommy could just be so accustomed to Alfie's brand of eccentricity he had all but embraced it...

“You—” Tommy cut himself off, procuring a cigarette and lighting it in a series of clumsy movements as opposed to his usual fluidity. “There's something I wanted to ask you, actually.”

Alfie squinted at him. “Oh?”

Tommy was smoking his cigarette so quickly Alfie might be a little alarmed if it was anyone other than Tommy Shelby doing it. “I understand how this will sound—believe me I fucking do, but—fuck.”

Was Tommy experiencing a similar phenomenon? Was Alfie not alone in this insanity after all?

“Out with it, Tommy. Fucking please,” Alfie asked, and when Tommy did nothing but continue to smoke and drive Alfie's impatience up the fucking wall, Alfie added, “Something about today, isn't it? There's no tomorrow, mate.”

Now, if Tommy _still_ didn't look at Alfie like he was crazy after all, it had to mean Tommy was stuck in this farce with him.

Tommy turned to him, his cigarette hanging limp in his fingers. “You know.” He said it like a question and an expression of relief at once.

“No, I don't fucking know, Tom. What I do know, right, is for the past four days I've been living the same fucking day. Everything's been the same—Cyril, the weather, my fucking breakfast, the housekeeper... Except you, mate.”

Tommy took a sharp drag on his cigarette and snuffed it out beneath his shoe. “All right,” he said, lighting another cigarette, “tell me your side of the story.”

So, Alfie did, and afterwards, Tommy did the same. Their versions of events aligned well enough for them to deduce they were stuck in a similar time-loop of sorts—whatever it was, it would certainly not be in any academic books of physical science as far as Alfie was aware.

“Oh, and killing yourself doesn't work,” Alfie said, smiling wryly. “Been there, done that, mate.”

“That would explain why you didn't show up yesterday.”

“The previous today, you mean.”

Tommy ignored him and continued, “So, for you, the day resets when I shoot you." His brows pulled together in contemplation. “And, for me, it resets at the end of the day.”

“What happens if you _don't_ shoot me, right, and both of us stay up through the night?” Alfie asked, though it wasn't so much a question than a suggestion of their first course of action.

“All right. It's worth trying,” Tommy said eventually. “We stay together, Alfie, and maybe we'll figure a way out of this.”

“Us against the world sort of thing?”

Tommy sighed. “I don't know. Maybe.”


	2. Chapter 2

They wasted not a moment in putting the plan into motion; not that there was much _to_ do in the first place but to wait out the day, and perhaps to investigate for further clues. Yet it was fucking difficult, wasn’t it—near impossible, in fact, to even know where to start, except from what Alfie had just discussed with Tommy at the pier: both of them would see through the day, through the night, the next morning and then some. Simple enough.

“Your house then, Alfie,” Tommy said and took a puff of his cigarette. “We wait it out there.”

Alfie balked at the thought. “No, fuck no. If I have to spend another fucking minute in there, right, I’ll blow my brains out.”

“Thought you’d tried that.” Tommy’s mouth curled up into a little smirk.

“I did, yeah. Not terribly effective I’m afraid.”

“Good to know.”

“What, you planning to put a gun to your head anytime soon, silly boy?”

Tommy’s gaze slid towards Alfie’s, then away again, saying nothing, and Alfie shouldn’t be as concerned as he was, really, but he _was_ …

Alfie shook it off, instead; he wasn’t in a position to lecture Tommy on that front either, was he?

They ended up wandering into town on foot, having left Tommy’s car behind until it was too late to turn back for it. There wasn’t much to do here, as it turned out; Margate wasn’t exactly known for its shops and restaurants and all the shit that came with being a capital like London.

There was, however, a bakery that Alfie had discovered upon his initial venture to Margate, and it was so fucking divine it wouldn’t be preposterous to find out it was indeed Godsent; thus, there they went at Alfie’s behest, and Tommy seemed he couldn’t care less, so why the fuck not?

Alfie ordered them some bread and butter pudding and joined Tommy at a table by the window. “Not long to go now, Tommy.” Alfie took a seat across from him. “Heaven is on its way.”

Tommy kept his gaze past the window. “According to you, Alfie, it’s already here.”

 _Margate; blue skies; a piece of Heaven—_ Alfie’s own words to Tommy echoed from the past.

“That’s right, Tom. Prime location for a nice long life in retirement, if one was lucky enough for such a luxury. Highly recommended, mate, even if I’d only had, fuck, two weeks here.”

“Two weeks and counting, if this—” Tommy waved a hand in the air “—goes on.”

“Nah, mate. This is borrowed time, and borrowed time—well, that’s another matter entirely, isn't it, Tom?”

“It’s something,” Tommy said, shrugging.

Something awful and tedious and ridiculous was what it was, yet at this moment, with them sitting by the window of a bakery with the most delectable goods, it didn’t seem so bad. Alfie could forget the farce of it all, if just for a time.

Two plates of bread and butter pudding were served not long after. Alfie watched as Tommy eyed the dish, then Tommy glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Yes, Alfie?”

“Go on, mate,” Alfie said, eyes on Tommy all the while. “I want to see what Tommy Shelby is like in the face of nirvana.”

“Right.”

When Tommy’s expression remained rather impassive upon tasting the pudding, Alfie tried not to sound too affronted as he asked, “Well?”

“Overrated, Alfie.”

“Yeah, fuck off.”

Tommy kept eating regardless; that was proof enough that Tommy was a fucking liar.

* * *

When the night came around, there wasn’t much left to do except return to Alfie’s house or stay at an inn whilst they tided this over, and since his house was the very _last_ place Alfie wanted to set foot in, it was hardly a difficult decision.

To no one’s surprise, idling within the four walls of a room until the wee hours— _and_ more—was fucking boring, and judging by the unprecedented speed of Tommy smoking through his packet of cigarettes due to the sheer lack of anything else to do, Alfie would say the sentiment was shared.

“I’m going for a walk,” Tommy said apropos of nothing.

“Nothing to see at three in the morning, mate.”

“I’m done being a fucking tourist, Alfie. Just want to be out.”

So they ended up back at the beach, which wasn’t too far away. And, as it happened, they ended back at the pier, too. Why, though, Alfie didn’t fucking know, and if there were any reason, it would certainly not be one of sentimentality—something about visiting the place at which Alfie had died over and over.

Regardless, it was nice—sitting at the edge of the pier, basked in twilight and Margate’s gentle breeze. If Alfie weren’t Alfie and Tommy weren’t Tommy, it might even be romantic.

Being romantic with Tommy... What would that be like?

Such a strange fucking thought.

They didn’t say much to each other, here; usually Alfie did prefer to fill such a silence here and there, because silence, well, it could get bloody awkward, couldn’t it, with each party not knowing what to say, twiddling their fucking thumbs as they waited for anyone quick-witted enough to break the lull without making a fool of themselves.

In Tommy’s company, however, the quietness between them did feel to Alfie rather easy, and he knew the lack of conversation wasn’t for want of something to say, but rather their company alone was, despite it all, enough.

So they lingered in this silence that almost seemed dreamlike as they verged on a new day, and when the sun peeked shyly over the ocean’s horizon, Alfie asked, “Is it over then?”

“It’s another day,” Tommy said. “Doesn’t mean it’s over.”

“A new day is the furthest I’ve come, mate, so I take it as a fucking win.”

Of course, they couldn’t stay awake forever, so what now?

“If this doesn’t work...” Tommy let his voice trail off, retrieving his packet of cigarettes only to find it was empty, and he sighed, shoulders sagging as though held down by the weight of the fucking world, and wasn’t that something Alfie could understand all too well, because the notion of being stuck in this bullshit forever was…

No use dwelling on that, was there?

They decided to part ways not long after.

“Good luck, mate,” Alfie said as they reached Tommy’s car, which was parked by the beach.

Tommy nodded.

“Are you all right to drive, though? It’s, what, five fucking hours back to Arrow House, Tommy.”

“I’ve done worse.”

Of course he had.

“Suit yourself then.”

Alfie watched as Tommy’s car faded into the distance, and only when it was completely gone did he turn around and walk back to his house. He paused before the front door, unsure of it all now that he was here…

Before Alfie could change his mind, he entered the house.

Cyril was chewing on his toy on the kitchen floor, beside Marjorie. And Marjorie, thank _fuck_ , wasn’t making cranberry buttermilk pancakes.

“Good morning, Mr Solomons.” She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. “I wasn’t sure if you would be back for breakfast, so I’m making something simple, just scrambled eggs with toast. I hope that’s all right, sir. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

God, it was all right. _More_ than fucking all right. So Alfie simply dropped onto his sofa as he waited, and waited...

* * *

Alfie awoke to the same day and all he could see was _red_.

For fuck’s sake.

Clearly, he was cursed to live like this for the rest of his days, which was looking more and more like fucking forever.

He put a pillow over his face and screamed into it.

Why was this happening to _him_? What the fuck had he done? Actually—what _hadn’t_ he done would be the better question.

Was that it then—some sort of karmic retribution to right all the wrongs he’d committed?

Alfie flung the lamp on his stand against the wall, smashing it to little bits that seemed to taunt him from the floor and _fuck_ he hated it, hated this room, this fucking house, that same stupid song playing from the gramophone, Marjorie’s fucking cooking.

His gun beckoned from his nightstand.

No, no—that was bloody useless. He’d tried that.

“Mr Solomons,” Marjorie said, alarmed, when Alfie stormed out of his room, “is something wrong?”

Alfie ignored her, heading directly to the gramophone from which _Dardanella_ was still playing, and threw it against the floor. The sound of its crash cracked the morning peace in half, and for an instant, it was almost satisfying. “You,” Alfie said to Marge, “if you ever play that fucking song again, right, just do me a favour and get the fuck out forever.”

She stared at him, growing pale.

“And, while I’m at it,” Alfie said, walking towards the kitchen where the freshly prepared pancakes were waiting, “stop fucking making these like it’s the only thing you know.” He flung the plates against the sink and the porcelain shattered upon the impact. For good measure, he swept the entire rack of drying dishes to the floor until it was covered in broken shards.

Alfie walked out of the kitchen, feeling entirely unsatisfied and it was nothing short of infuriating. It was only then he noticed Marjorie was crying, and she backed away from him as he walked past her to the door.

Great. Fucking great.

He stared at the mess of his own doing. “Fuck. Sorry. I—” He cut himself off and, instead, left the house, his only solace being the fact that at least she wouldn’t remember it tomorrow, because tomorrow...

There was no such thing, was there?

* * *

When Alfie returned to the house in the afternoon, all traces of what had transpired were gone, as though it’d never happened. One look at Marjorie, though, was proof indeed that far from nothing had happened.

But Alfie couldn’t quite bring himself to face her—and what the fuck did it matter, anyway, it’d all be void soon enough—so he muttered a quick apology and left her alone.

The telephone rang half an hour later.

“Where the fuck did you go?” was Tommy’s greeting when Alfie picked up.

“Nowhere, Tom. That’s the fucking problem, isn’t it?”

Alfie heard Tommy sigh over the line, and Tommy said, “What if Margate’s the connection, Alfie? We both stay the fuck away from the place. See what happens.”

Well, that could be possible… It certainly was an option worth exploring, yet Alfie couldn’t bring himself to care at this moment. Perhaps he would, tomorrow, or the next day, whatever the hell, but here, now, he couldn’t give less of a fuck.

“Alfie?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here, mate.” Alfie closed his eyes and leaned back into the sofa. “Why don’t you, right, why don’t you give it a go and report back to me when you wake up to the same fucking morning, hmm?”

Tommy hung up the phone, and Alfie lived the rest of his day in what make-believe peace he could.

* * *

The following days passed in all but a blur. How many days exactly, Alfie didn’t care to find out. Tommy didn’t call after that one time he had, which was just as well, because what the fuck was there to talk about, really?

So Alfie let the days go by. He walked Cyril. He watched ships. He ate Marjorie’s cooking without a word of complaint even when his tongue had gone fucking numb from sheer repetition.

It wasn’t all bad; if there was one thing Alfie had learned, it was the fact that when you lived through the same things enough times, you stopped noticing them.

What a fucking blessing.

* * *

One night, Alfie picked up the telephone and rang for Arrow House.

“You still there, mate?” Alfie said when Tommy answered on the final ring.

“Where else could I be, Alfie.”

It’d been a while since he had heard Tommy’s voice.

“Thought you’d left me behind,” Alfie mumbled into the phone. “Left me for fucking tomorrow or something.”

“No such luck.”

“You’re saying you _would_ leave me in the dust then, you fucker?”

Alfie heard a curt sound that sounded almost like a small laugh. Couldn’t quite tell, what with the telephone and all.

“Are you drunk, Tom?”

“No.”

A lull settled over the line. Alfie closed his eyes, tried to picture what Tommy was doing right this moment—a glass of gin in hand, a cigarette in the other, probably, whilst he lounged in that ridiculous chair in his study.

“Tell me, Thomas, what do you miss the most about yesterday? Or tomorrow? Last week, even.”

Last week… how long ago would that be?

A few beats passed before Tommy said, “Not waking up to the day I’m supposed to kill you.”

Well, that was certainly an answer.

“If it’s such a burden, I wouldn’t have asked,” Alfie said lightly. “But doing it myself, right, doing it myself—it’s not the same, is it.”

Tommy sighed, likely procuring another cigarette by now. “Good night, Alfie.”

A good night…

Fat fucking chance of that.

* * *

It felt like an unspoken agreement, these telephone calls that might as well be scheduled, for they seemed to take place around the same time each night. Sometimes, Tommy was the one to call, and others, it would be Alfie.

It didn’t matter who picked up the phone first, because, in the end, neither of them would hang up, and the line would linger until the day ended, and began again.

* * *

At times, Tommy and Alfie would stay on the phone without saying a single word.

And Alfie was fine with that, he was. Tommy too, probably, because he never hung up either.

There wasn’t a lot to say, was there, with their world at a standstill. When they did talk, it would be of the past and, God, Alfie was tired of the past, and he was tired of the present. Not the future, though.

Couldn’t be tired of something he didn’t know, could he now?

* * *

In between days that passed like fog, on mornings that Alfie could muster a little energy to care—by some wonder or another—he would try, again.

Though it wasn’t so much trying to solve the problem as killing himself over and over with various methods; if nothing else, it was an exercise in creativity.

None of it worked, of course. Not that Alfie had ever expected it to. It had simply become another one of his pastimes, and wasn’t that fantastic?

* * *

It was a morning like any others, really, except Alfie had an explicable urge to see Tommy.

Alfie didn’t know why, didn’t quite care either. He had stopped caring about a lot of things by now, and Tommy was one of the few that he hadn’t. So, why not?

That was how Alfie found himself in front of Arrow House, quite a few hours of driving later, and Good Lord, he’d forgotten how stupidly large the place was.

Thomas Shelby, the vainest bastard on the planet.

“What are you doing here?” Tommy asked when he saw Alfie at the door. A fine fucking greeting it was, even if Tommy sounded more confused than anything, because seeing him, hearing his voice in person, after all this time of talking, or _not_ talking on the phone, it was—it was certainly something.

“Got bored, mate.”

And wasn’t that the truth.

Except Alfie was more than bored. He’d missed the fucker. Wasn’t about to say _that_ , however.

Tommy let Alfie into his drawing room.

“So, Tom, what’s new?” Alfie asked, smirking without too much amusement because, honestly, old fucking joke, that.

But Tommy said the last thing Alfie might expect him to: “Golf, actually.”

“Huh. Golf.” Alfie squinted at him, trying to see if Tommy was in fact joking, and when Tommy didn’t elaborate, Alfie added, “You’re fucking serious, mate.”

Tommy shrugged.

Could be worse, of course. But _golf?_ Another week in this limbo and Tommy would start having high tea with a Duke or Earl or whatever the fuck toffs liked to call themselves.

“Why don’t you try it, eh?” Tommy said as he retrieved his gear. “It passes the time, Alfie. Not much more we can ask for.”

So, went golfing they did, and it was every bit as dull as Alfie had imagined. He opted to watch Tommy mostly, which eased the boredom a fair bit, surprisingly, and even Alfie could tell Tommy was far from enjoying this particular sport… But, well, desperate times.

There was, however, one thing Alfie could say about golf: it did pass the time.

* * *

It was well into dusk when they returned to Arrow House. Dinner was already set on the table by Tommy’s servants—fucking hell, there were so _many_ of them—so Tommy and Alfie ate, and they didn’t say much over the meal; it was difficult to have a proper conversation, frankly, with the footmen hovering about like a shadow.

The rest of the evening passed without fuss. Tommy had one of his guest rooms prepared for Alfie’s stay, which was something Alfie hadn’t planned on doing, yet here they were.

* * *

It wasn’t until Alfie was staring up at the ceiling in the dark, amidst this strange bed that wasn’t his own, that he remembered he wouldn’t wake up here—at Tommy’s house—the next morning, but rather back at Margate; for a few hours, he’d forgotten about being stuck in this mess…

What he would give to have that again.

It was this moment when Alfie’s door creaked open, and Tommy was on the other side.

“What the fuck?” Alfie asked as Tommy let himself in.

Tommy shrugged, and Alfie could only wish to see his expression in the dark, because, like Alfie had said, what the fuck. “For a change,” was Tommy’s only response. He remained standing by the closed door, as if he had no bloody idea what to do with himself.

As it happened, Alfie didn’t either, so he simply stared at Tommy through the near-blackness. Eventually, Alfie managed to say, “You decide to come here, right, to the room I’m fucking staying in, for a change of scenery?”

“Yes.”

There was no doubt Tommy had officially lost it.

“Well, it’s your house, mate. Do what you want, yeah.”

What Tommy wanted was, apparently, to lie beside Alfie in the guest bed, because that was exactly what Tommy did, and Alfie wondered if he had, indeed, died and this was his version of Heaven or Hell—whichever one it was, Alfie was likely about to find out.

“What is it, Tom?” Alfie asked into the dark, feeling Tommy shift a little beside him. “You’re being fucking weird and I’m, well, let’s say I’m concerned.”

“Nothing.” The word left Tommy in a heavy sigh. “Just—tired. Of everything.”

“Yeah, no fucking shit, eh.”

They didn’t say much for a while, and simply lay beside beside each other, listening to each other’s breathing and it was entirely strange and pleasant and ridiculous at once, especially with the way Alfie’s heart was speeding up by the second, knowing, feeling Tommy’s presence, so close, _too_ close, and it’d been far too fucking long since Alfie had slept with anyone in any capacity—

“Didn’t want to be alone,” Tommy said quietly, jarring Alfie out of what would probably have spiralled into a bloody panic attack.

“All right.” Alfie’s voice was a little rough and it was fucking _embarrassing_.

A pause. “Alfie.”

“What?”

“I’ve done a lot of things in this one day.”

So had Alfie. “Get to the point, mate.”

“You know what I haven’t done?”

“Again, to the fucking point, Tommy.”

Alfie felt the mattress dip a little, and Tommy was a lot closer to him now, a _lot_ closer. Tommy said nothing and, instead, kissed Alfie on the mouth. Tommy’s lips were as warm and soft as Alfie might’ve imagined them to be, and in the dark, it was all too easy to _imagine_ , wasn’t it, yet he didn’t need to, because Tommy was kissing him on the lips, along Alfie’s jaw, down his neck, and he was doing it so slowly, and softly, as though revelling in every moment of it.

Who knew Tommy would be so gentle in bed...

Alfie brought his hands around Tommy’s back and dipped them under his shirt. Alfie let Tommy kiss him along the length of his collarbone, before bringing their mouths together again, a little more roughly this time, though just as slowly, because they had time, didn’t they. Fuck, all they _had_ was time and perhaps, for once, it was a good thing.

Tomorrow, it would be like nothing had ever happened. Tomorrow, they would be back to square one, like everything else in this world.

Except they wouldn’t, would they? For whatever reason, everything they did had left not a single mark in the world but the ones to do with each other, and that was…

Fuck it.

Alfie continued to kiss him.

“What are we doing?” Tommy mumbled against Alfie’s lips.

“Passing the time,” Alfie said, grinning, and had Tommy shift so he was on top Alfie. He pulled Tommy’s shirt over his head and tossed it aside, kissing him all the while, and just like that Alfie’s hands could roam Tommy’s body without refrain, and it was marvellous.

“Your pants are still on, Tom.”

Tommy made a sound in the back of his throat. “Yours too.”

They fixed both of those things rather quickly. Somewhere along the way, they’d repositioned such that Alfie was on Tommy, instead. Rolling his hips against Tommy’s, the thin fabric of their underwear was all that was between them and, God, Alfie could feel how hard Tommy was, how much Tommy _wanted_ him and wasn’t it fucking amazing.

“I want to fuck you,” Alfie rasped between kisses down Tommy’s chest. He curled a hand around Tommy’s cock and stroked along its length with a firm grip. Tommy drew in a sharp breath and pressed his face against Alfie’s shoulder. “Or you can fuck me, that works too,” Alfie added, grinning.

“What do you want?” Tommy asked, meeting Alfie’s eyes in the dark. His breathing was heavier, now, as they shared the air in what little gap remained between them. The moonlight peeked through the curtains and for a moment, Tommy’s eyes looked almost silver.

“I want—” Alfie’s words hitched in his chest when Tommy teased a finger near his arse. “I want you. Want to be inside you,” Alfie managed to say, burying his face into the crook of Tommy’s neck. “Is that all right?”

Tommy gave a small laugh. “When was the last time you asked permission for anything?”

Good question…

“I take that as a yes, then.”

“Just shut up and fuck me, Alfie.”

And weren’t those just the sweetest words Alfie had ever heard come out of Tommy’s mouth.

* * *

“If we ever woke up to a new day, would you still want to die?” Tommy asked Alfie, voicing the question into the night, as they lay sweat-slicked and spent and _done_ in all the best ways.

“And risk getting stuck in yet another one of these innovative methods of torture? Fuck no, mate.”

“Good,” Tommy said beside him.

And perhaps it was then that Alfie realised he wasn’t just saying those words to appease Tommy. Hadn’t he spent enough time on what was supposed to be his last fucking day in this world? At this point, if Alfie ever got the chance to do _anything_ else, he would grab it with both hands and he would fucking live God damn it. And he would see through this life with Tommy fucking Shelby in it, thanks very much. Fuck, Alfie could even live with the cancer if it meant getting _out_ of this stupid mess.

Imagine that.

God, Alfie wanted it so fucking bad he _didn’t_ want to imagine it, because he knew all too well by now that to hope for anything at all was an awful mistake.

So he didn’t, and fell asleep to the sound of Tommy’s breathing, knowing he wouldn’t hear it again in the morning.

* * *

It was the next day, and Alfie awoke in a bed that wasn’t his own. And Tommy was beside him.

Alfie sat up on the bed, glancing around him.

He was at Arrow House. In Tommy’s guest room.

Good Lord.

Was this happening?

Alfie shook Tommy awake, eager to the point of violent. “Tell me I’m not fucking crazy, Tom.”

Tommy blinked lazily, eyes adjusting to the brightness around him, and Tommy said nothing, simply stared at Alfie, then around the room, then back at Alfie.

“We fucking did it. We did it,” Alfie said, laughing. “Unless, of course, I’m fucking dreaming and in that case I might jump off your balcony, Tom, but this—this—”

“You’re not dreaming, Alfie.” Tommy seemed to hardly believe his own words even as he’d said them.

* * *

“But why, Alfie? How?”

“I don’t fucking know. Don’t care either, Tom. There was no exact science to all the mess, was there?”

“You no longer wanted to die. That’s it, then.”

“Could also be that we fucked. Or because neither of us was at Margate. Does it fucking matter anymore?”

“Just saying.”

“Well, stop saying things, right, and just fucking kiss me already.”

So Tommy did, and it was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, this ended up becoming longer than I had planned it :)  
> I hope you liked this story! It was definitely fun to write ^_^  
> Would love to hear your thoughts in the comments if you have any!


End file.
